


Breaking the Dragon

by Smaragdina



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, F/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smaragdina/pseuds/Smaragdina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When the other Dragonborn takes her gauntleted hand in her gloved one to point at the statue of the dragon that crouches high over the altar, it is the same. Recognizeable. Always the same. Akatosh. Alduin." When you try to slay an aspect of the God of Time, time shatters - as two very different Dragonborns find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am the first to admit that this fic is entirely too meta, too lore-heavy without explaining said lore, and rather self-indulgent. I regret nothing.
> 
> Rated for violence, particularly trauma to eyeballs.

I.

“We’ll give you credit: you broke Alkosh something fierce, and that’s not easy. Just don’t think you solved what you accomplished by it, or can ever solve it.” – R’leyt-harhr, Tender to the Mane, in _Where Were You When The Dragon Broke?_

 

Riften is a crappy little pit of a city, and when Niamh finally comes down the stairs of the crappy little tavern (armor finally shed, fingers still tingling with the lingering wisps of telekinesis that she’d used to peel the steel and pale dragonbone from her body by herself), she’s not expecting anything more than ale. Crappy ale to match the city, too, so it’s with relief that she slides a few Septims across the bar for a cup of mead.

And it’s with a more familiar sense of dread that she sees the barkeep’s slit-pupil eyes go wide.

She’s seeing what everyone else sees, what Niamh can’t seem to avoid these days – her face in the mirror, the shock of too-bright red hair and too-bold freckles that have surely made it into _all_ the songs by now. The black-singed tips of her fingers on the coin and the Archmage’s signet ring like a gaudy little trophy on her right hand. And the scent of metal and arcana and blood that hangs around her, too, that she cannot – _cannot ¬_ – seem to scrub out of her skin.

“Apologies for not recognizing you sooner, milady,” croaks the Argonian, and she gives a little half-bow, the kind that makes Niamh cringe. “Anything you want is on the house. Anything for the Dra-”

“No,” says Niamh. Her voice used to be sweet but now it _rasps_ around the edges, a rattling sword-edge in a throat burnt by words it was never meant to speak. She holds out a hand, palm down. Quiet. Peace. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“But you –”

“Please.”

The Argonian’s throat bobs but she relents, lets Niamh slide a larger pile of coins across the counter and leave a few moments later with stew and cheese and a heel of bread. It is the tavern’s best bread, she can tell, and the cheese comes from Cyrodiil and is worth far more than what she’s paid. But at least no one had shouted – hah, shouted – her title. At least the bard in the corner was not singing the song about her.

She’d heard that song in every inn in Skyrim, it felt like. All exaggerations, all praise for things she had not _done_ yet and still hasn’t. It used to make her laugh. Now, she spends far too much time wishing her aim was sharp enough to set lute strings on fire.

She settles at an empty table in the corner and busies herself with the flaky bread and underpriced cheese and tries not to think too much. And when someone else approaches the table, lays a hand on the back of a chair, she contemplates throwing the stew in his face.

If he starts fawning over her, if he ever says the word _Dragonborn_ , she’ll set it on fire first. She really will.

“Can I sit?” he asks, and at the accent of _home_ she looks up.

Imperial – and not even Legion – and that itself is a rarity, here, unfamiliar, as is the smile on his face. It’s the crooked little smile of someone not seeking work or worship, the kind that says company with a question mark at the end. It has been far too long since she’s seen that. She realizes – almost laughing in surprise – that he does not know who she is. And that his eyes are lingering on her face and the red shock of her hair for reasons that clearly have nothing to do with what he’s heard in a song.

It should bother her.

It doesn’t.

And besides, his accent – _can I sit?_ – is all the flat mercantile tones of Cyrodiil, of home, and it’s for that reason more than any that she rasps out a “’yes, of course.”

The shortsword at his hip bangs awkwardly against the chair when he does, and she can tell that he’s not used to wearing it, but he pretends like nothing’s happened as he gestures at her plate. “How’d you get Keevara to give you the Eidar? I asked and she said she’d been out for a week.”

She realizes a second later that he’s talking about the cheese, responds “really?” another second before she remembers that her mouth is full. It comes out “rrrnnrry?”

The man grins. It’s crooked. “She must’ve just been hiding it for the pretty ones, then. Can’t blame her. Word is she’s having a hard time paying her protection money.”

The flirt doesn’t register. The last part does. Niamh swallows and hisses “shit.”

“Hmm?”

“Thieves’ Guild? Thieves’ Guild protection money?” He nods, and she starts digging around in her pocket. “Blast it, I’m paying her more, then, I didn’t realize –”

“Hey –” He lays a hand on hers and she _jumps,_ sparks flickering around her hair. “Hey, calm down. Take care of it later, alright? She’s…touchy about this kind of stuff.”

 _“Shit,_ ” she repeats, eyes down. It takes her a moment to relax. To slump. “Divines, I hate this city,” she mutters, running a sparking hand through her hair. “I can’t walk more than two feet before smacking into the fetching Thieves’ Guild or stepping on someone’s toes.”

“Charming place, isn’t it?” the man chuckles.

Niamh’s response is to sip her mead. He shrugs, takes out a Septim and starts playing with it, flipping it over his knuckles. Making it vanish at the top of a toss, pulling it out behind his ear, casual and clever. She watches his fingertips flicker. They are all black-seared and burnt, and she points. “Destruction magic?”

A grin. “How’d you guess?”

She waggles her own fingers at him in response and watches a smile break across his face. “Oooh, a fellow mage! You’ll put me out of business, you know. I’ve got a bit of a monopoly on the burning-things-to-a-crisp business in Riften.”

“Do you now?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He holds out his hand. “Marcurio.”

She takes it. “Niamh.”

“Niamh,” he repeats. She watches him sound it out. He tastes the flat Cyrodiilic-tinged vowels in his mouth, kisses the v at the end overlong before it leaves his lips. _“Neeeev_. Niamh.” He tilts his head. “Damn, that sounds familiar. Have I heard about you?”

“No,” she says quietly, shrinking back, a traitorous _edge_ in her voice. “No.”

But his eyes have fallen to the Archmage’s ring on her left hand. _“Oh,”_ he murmurs, pointing. “You’re – you’re – ”

“Y-you’re thinking of someone else.”

“…Am I?”

Niamh nods. “Absolutely,” she manages. Her throat is dry and cracked and _burnt,_ and all the mead and crap ale in the tavern could never wet it. “Can you…can you teach me that coin trick?”

Marcurio stares at her. For a moment, she can tell, he is not seeing _her._ He is seeing the legend, the magic-stains on her fingers and thrum to her voice, the sharp white bones worked into her armor that’s lying upstairs, the shadows and stories of wings. But it is only a moment. And then he gives himself a little shake and sits up straight and _smiles,_ crooked again, ordinary and wonderful. “There’s a price,” he tells her, serious.

Niamh stiffens. She thinks of dragons, of outlawed gods and Stormcloaks, of the way that everyone seems to want something of her. And then he smiles and points at her untouched Eidar cheese. “Can I have some of that?”

“…That’s the whole reason you came over here, isn’t it?”

_“Absolutely.”_

And Niamh is _laughing,_ hand over her mouth like it shouldn’t be allowed, and Marcurio is as well. He nabs the cheese from her plate and she is _laughing_ and he’s the one to pay, improbably, when they somehow run out of mead, buying two cups to replace her one. The Septim – his – is flashing across his fingers and across hers and she discovers, to no surprise, that she is utter shit at coin tricks, no dexterity at all, and she explains this with stories of triggered traps and teachers set on fire by wayward aim as the tavern quiet and empties out. He tries the Archmage ring on for kicks and then tries to run away with it, and she is laughing as he trips on the grease spell she lays for him at the door and goes _splat_ as well when she tries to help him up. She laughs until it hurts her throat, until she doesn’t notice. And when the tavern is dark and she finally trips and stumbles upstairs to her crappy bed, she takes him with her.

*

It will not die.

That is what Etain thinks as she presses herself flat against the inside wall of Whiterun’s tower, gouts of flame roaring past her and crisping the hair on her exposed skin. _It will not die._ The dragon has taken so many wounds, sword cuts to belly and breast and blows from axes that bounced off its scales as if it were made of stone, has dashed men to pieces against the ground and flown off again even though she swears its wings are torn to shreds. It has taken arrows, too, quiver after quiver full. Arrows from the guards who came to the tower with her (now dead) and those who were here before (also dead). They stick under scales, in its wings, between its teeth. One of them swivels from the blind and bleeding ruin of an eye.

Etain touches her own face, tracing scars with fingers she can’t see. She remembers the pain of that, the way she’d fallen to her knees with half the world a red blur. The _helplessness._ Any other creature would be crippled by now. Food for crows. Food for Sithis. Dead. But this is a dragon, and it will. Not. _Die._

This is what the Dragonborn is for.

But the Dragonborn is in Riften, improbably – the city she said she’d never visit, festering Thieves’ Guild pit that it is, the city she openly loathes, Etain _can’t_ imagine why she’d be there now – and the dragon is _here,_ and by the sounds from outside it seems that it and Etain are the only creatures still left breathing.

Damn it.

Damn _her._

She is going to die here, probably, certainly, because it will _not,_ and there is nothing to be done.

Etain swallows hard, nocks her final arrow in the string with hands that do not shake. She breathes a prayer, not caring if anyone will hear because there is no one to hear, just her and her death, death out there dreadfully wounded but proud and alive, and she watches with her good eye and waits for death to come snarling through the doorway. A breath, then two, then ten, and it does not.

There is _nothing_ to be done.

She raises the bow and turns on her heel, sighting out the door and down the length of the arrow at death crouched in the field, claws digging furrows in the ground and blood smoking from its ruined eye. It is the left eye, some part of her notes, like hers, and there is something about this that is so horrifically perfect – they stare each other down, her with hands steady on the bow and the dragon with a snarl growing between its jaws, something like the very _word_ for fire as it opens its mouth –

And her arrow takes it in the very back of the throat.

The dragon arches, spasms, _shakes_ , its snarl coming out as a cough of blood and smoke. Etain can only stand there in disbelief and triumph (and something, almost, like disappointment) as it crumples. It crashes to the ground. She imagines the earth shaking, imagines that she can see something like respect in its remaining eye as it goes dark, as a shudder wracks its body and it finally – finally –

Her legs are made of wood as she comes down the flame-black tower steps, bow gripped tightly in her hand and shock surely naked on her face.

It has taken two guard platoons. It has taken all her arrows. And the dragon is finally _dead._

And she is not.

She walks up to the corpse like a woman who is asleep, and she falls to her knees.

The earth beneath her hands is damp and black with blood. The smell is familiar. Comforting. Home. And she is shaking with pent-up terror, surely – it must be – the dragon flicking in the corner of her one good eye, colors all bent and strange. She is cold with shock, hot with the memory of fire, _giddy_ with the heady rush of being alive, _I survived this, why did I survive this –_

She raises her head and she screams.

It is a word, almost – not a word – something that had burnt her throat with the need to get out, something huge and dark, all _age_ and _other_ and – _FORCE –_

She hears gasps. Hears shrieks.

Open her eyes and watches _FORCE_ canter away into the sky, scattering crows in its wake.

“You – you’re –”

“Mara have mercy –”

“Dragonborn.”

The too-late reinforcements are clustered around her, daring each other to get closer, and the words –

The words they’re saying are in another language.

They are not making _sense._

“You’re Dragonborn.”

“How -?”

“But Niamh –”

“She shouted! Did you see that? She shouted! She used the Voice!”

“Just like the legends…”

“But there already _is_ a Dragonborn!”

Someone grabs her, someone lays a hand on her shoulder, and Etain stands, whirls, spits at him – spits _blood_ – and she runs.

“Dragonborn!”

She _runs._

Her bow is clenched white-knuckled in her fists and her leathers are creaking and protesting as she runs, she sprints towards Whiterun – no – away from Whiterun, damn it all, _away._ Faster than she had just minutes before. Faster than she _ever_ has in her life. Sprinting through fields and farmland as if the dragon is still on her heels. Because it is, it is – it did not die – it will _not_ die –

Her breath comes harsh and sobbing in her throat and it is _in_ her, it is. It is.

“Dragonborn!”

She cannot breath and she cannot see where she is going, half-blind with sweat and soot and the need to get away, to – to –

Hands grab her. Strong hands catch her by the shoulder and turn her and knock the last of the breath out of her, shove her to a broken wall. Hold her there. Etain snarls, soundless, reaches down by reflex to –

_“No.”_

A blow to her wrist, sharp and precise, and the knife goes spiraling out of her hand.

Etain stares, breath coming in ragged gasps, as the world swims into view –blue, a ragged claw slash, a battle-cry painted across a familiar face. She manages a wordless whine, fights against the other woman, but Aela does not back down.

“What happened,” she asks. It is not a question. One hand tightens on Etain’s shoulders as the other rises to touch her face. It is half gentle reassurance and half _look at me_ , a low command. “Etain – _tell me_ what happened.”

She does not respond, because the words are just _words_ with nothing behind them and they do not makes sense. Because she still cannot breathe.

“Don’t run from it,” the other woman is saying. Hand on her face, her cheek, fingertips stroking the grooves of scar under her left eye, reminder and comfort all at once. “Etain? Running from what’s hunting you never solved anything. _What happened?”_

“I,” she manages, “I – I’m – _Dragon-”_

She wretches and Aela lets her go, leaps back as she falls to her knees and coughs, and _coughs,_ into the dirt and then into her hands, coughs up the last lingering trace of the _FORCE_ in her throat. It tastes like fire. Tastes like death.

And when she finally stops and moves her hands away, they are spattered with blood.

*

Niamh puts her head in her hands.

She has been sitting on this bench for an hour. Surely. Long enough to slap away two pickpocket attempts and not notice the third (a hundred-Septim note is gone, enough to buy a steel sword or a family’s food for weeks, a fortune in this shitty town and a _pittance_ for the Dragonborn). Long enough that she doesn’t even notice the stink of sewage and fetid water under her feet. She hates this town. She does, she hates it, but she thinks that if she sits here much longer she could end up getting used to it, and she hates that thought most of all.

It’s enough to get her to stand, to straighten her robes – no armor for this – and to give the orphanage door her best challenging stare.

“Right,” she tells it, “I’m going in.”

A beggar snickers, and she realizes belatedly that she has actually said this _out loud._

It is not, she rationalizes, that she’s frightened of an old woman. Not at all.

She is far more frightened of a little boy in an abandoned house, crouched with blood and viscera in a circle around him, stabbing a heart over and over with a dull glaze in his child-wide eyes.

She is _far_ more frightened of walking up to this poor old woman and telling her what she has seen.

How is she supposed to tell a charity worker that the _Dark Brotherhood_ is out to kill her? How does anyone hear something like that?

But it’s been an hour. The door – not a Dwemer portal, not a Daedric-temple ruin, just a battered Riften door – isn’t getting any less threatening. And the beggar is still snickering.

 _Dragonborn._ Right.

She nods, and before she can rehearse her speech once more in her head _(Ma’am? You have to believe me! I swear I’m not crazy! He was sitting in a pile of entrails!),_ she walks up and raps smartly on the door.

One of the orphans answers it, a little boy in a too-big tunic, and he cowers under the blaze of her hair. “Whoa – are you really the _Dragonbo-”_

“PleasetellGrelodIneedtotalktoher?”

The boy blinks at her and Niamh blushes, clears her throat. “Er – tell Grelod I want to talk to her, would you? Privately.”

As he runs off, she consoles herself with the fact that she cut him off before he could announce her to the whole bloody street.

She lets herself in, steps into the chilly little foyer and closes the door behind her. It takes three tries before it sticks. She shifts from foot to foot, waiting, trying not to grimace at the stains on the walls and the gouges in the floor. Tries to tell herself that the shadow she saw on the boy’s cheek was not, could not be, a fresh bruise.

This is Grelod the _Kind,_ after all. And these are children. And rumors say that the old woman is pushing ninety.

Niamh snaps herself out of it. She can hear the patter of feet upstairs, the thump of a cane, and the boy’s voice in rising tones that make her wince.

“No, I swear, I swear! The Dragonborn is here! She wants to talk to you! She’s got the hair from the song and everything!”

“Don’t tell lies! Haven’t I told you what happens to little boys who lie?”

“But it’s true, I swear! She’s right – _Aaah!”_

Thump of little body hitting a wall, sliding to the floor.

Niamh puts a hand to her mouth.

“Don’t – tell – lies!” And each word is another _crack,_ cane on flesh, another sharp cry. “Why would the Dragonborn ever speak to _you?_ You worthless – little – piece of –”

Niamh is up the stairs before she realizes that she’s moved.

The door is open and the old woman is standing over the little boy with her cane in the air, there is blood on the cane, there is _fire_ in Niamh’s hands, there is rage in her throat and her voice and there is fire and her hands and her aim is off, she means only to startle the woman but the blood is on the cane and there is rage in her _Voice_ and her aim is off, has always and will always be off and the curtains are burning. Grelod is burning. Grelod is burning and screaming a horrible scream and the boy, the boy, the boy is fine, bloody but fine, she pulls him away from the old woman who is shrieking as she burns and the air is beginning to smell of cooked flesh and _oh Divines forgive me_ there is nothing she can do for her now but send _more fire –_

She cover’s the boy’s eyes with one hand and she casts, she casts, flames leaping from her hands, until Grelod is no longer screaming.

And then she crumples against the wall and covers her face with her soot-black hands as the children gather and begin to applaud.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispers, again and again. “I didn’t…”

The air is thick with the smell of death.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she manages, voice shaking, unable to look at the children as they laugh and dance around her, skip two-by-two over the smoking body. “P-please, you can’t – I didn’t mean to –”

Because she could deal with this properly, deal with this legally, but…

But…

“Tell them you don’t know what happened. _Please._ Tell them you don’t know. This didn’t h-happen.”

_This did not happen._

She leaves the orphanage in a daze, smelling like fire and blame and death, stumbles back toward the Bee and Barb and falls shaking into her rented bed. _This did not happen._ She is Niamh, Dragonborn, Archmage, Last Hope of Skyrim (so the songs say), the right arm of General Tullius and the sure-to-be- _has_ -to-be-savior of them all. She does not cook old woman where they stand while children watch and cheer.

And so she forgets.

And when Marcurio hands her a letter a few days later, shrugging when she asks him to describe the courier (“I dunno, shady-looking, seemed to know even less than I did”), she rips it open and blinks.

“We know,” reads Marcurio, peering over her shoulder. “Huh.” He kisses her cheek. “What? You’ve got some deep, dark secret that I don’t know about?”

“Plenty, but none that I’m telling you,” Niamh chuckles. “I have no idea. That’s the worst attempt at blackmail I’ve ever seen.” She crumples the note and burns it in her palm, yelping when Marcurio reaches over and pokes to make the fire turn green and flare two feet high.

And that is the last of that. They spend the evening chatting and drinking – more than they should – and if her last ale tastes odd it is only because she is so tired, if it tastes a bit over-sweet or a bit like herbs it is only because she is so, well, drunk. She shoes Marcurio away at her door, begging exhaustion, and if the room is tilting a little –

She falls asleep before she hits the bed.

*

“Etain?”

She pretends she doesn’t hear.

Shadowmere snorts and tries to twitch her off as she tightens the second billet with far, far more force than necessary. “Sorry,” she mutters, and the horse responds with a whuffle and an anxious paw at the ground.

_We have to go._

“I know.”

“Etain!”

She hunches her shoulders against the shout and mounts. Shadowmere is already moving before she’s even set in the saddle, and Aela stands in the stable door, arms crossed, face starkly furious.

“So help me,” Etain snarls, reigning up sharply. “I will ride you down.”

“No you won’t.”

“Try me. Now is not the time, Aela. _Move.”_

“No.” The taller woman lifts her chin. “We’re going _hunting_ tonight,” she spits, and if there is an odd tilt to the word, an odd cadence, Etain can’t quite catch it. _“Hunting,_ properly, you’re going with – Farkas –” A tilt, a cadence, an _edge_ that is feral and almost dragon-like in its rawness, predatory – “You can’t run off!”

“Watch me.” Shadowmere rears, snorting, and Etain can barely keep her seat but Aela, damn her, does not flinch and does not move. That’s what it takes to make her _spit._ “They killed Astrid! They – the fucking Legion, somebody, they killed her! She’s _dead!_ A-and now they’re marching – S-Sithis – they know, they’re marching, a-and I think everybody got out to Dawnstar but –”

And if any of this is confusing to Aela she doesn’t show it, damn her, damn her and that slash of clawmark paint that makes Etain’s blind eye sting and burn whenever she looks at it, damn that set of her jaw and the cant of her shoulders and damn, _damn her –_

“- But I have to make sure! I have to be there. And I have to kill them!”

“You,” Aela snaps, winter-cold, “against an entire Legion patrol. I don’t care what you are, you’ll be butchered like a pig. _Why.”_

“Because they _killed Astrid!_ And I have to kill them!”

“You will _die.”_

Etain gives a little laugh. Her hands are so tight on the reins that her nails are digging into the skin, she can smell the blood, it makes her _laugh. “I don’t care!”_

Aela snarls.

She _snarls._

She snarls and Shadowmere is bucking and Etain is falling, falling, hits the hay-strewn dirt with a yell and scrabbles out of the way as the horse backs away from the door, head down, red eyes wild with fear at the –

Wolf –

Dark, long-limbed, clawed, body hunched and weight on only two of its limbs as it snarls at Shadowmere and backs him into his stall, as it turns to look at Etain and she can see the faded slash of a three-claw mark in a pattern of darker fur on its muzzle.

The wolf stares at her a moment, panting, and then it is Aela, it is Aela standing there as normal Aela with her normal rough-cut armor and the normal cant of her shoulders that Etain loves and hates, normal lines of blue-green paint across her face, her hands up in a gesture of _calm,_ a gesture of _peace._

Etain backs away on her hands until she hits the wall of the stable, Shadowmere snuffling in fear on the other side.

“It’s okay,” Aela murmurs. “It’s me.” Her lips tighten. “That wasn’t how I wanted to tell you.”

“You – you’re a –”

“Yes.”

The silence grows large and loud enough to swallow them whole, fur and all.

“They killed _Astrid,”_ says Etain at last. Her voice is quiet and carries an edge that is growing more and more familiar, the edge of words that aren’t meant to come from a mortal throat. “And I need to kill them. I _need_ to.”

“You mentioned Sithis.”

She lifts her chin. “I _need_ to.”

“Want to?”

_“Need.”_

Aela studies her and then steps up and holds out a hand, and Etain – no hesitation, because if this is death then this is _death_ – takes it and lets the woman pull her to her feet. Watches as she lets her go and puts her hands up again. _Calm. Peace._ They eye each other across a distance that seems so much longer than an arm’s length apart.

“So,” says Aela at last, crossing her arms, “Who’s this Astrid?”

“My boss. My friend.” Etain rubs a hand over her mouth. Turns to look at Aela with her bad eye – it’s not quite looking away, but she’s not looking at her, which is the important part. “More than a friend, if she wasn’t…yeah.”

Not interested.

Dead.

_Married._

There’s a cringe there, and a too-late spike of jealousy. She thinks of Arnbjorn. Thinks of the wolf-smell that always hangs around Arnbjorn, that same haze of blood and musk and leaf and wet dog that permeates all of Jorrvaskr, the smell of Aela, and she wonders how she didn’t notice before.

There are so many things that she didn’t notice.

Aela seems to be thinking the same, because she’s quiet, because Etain glances back over just enough to see her eyes flicker. Sizing her up, almost. Predatory and yet very much _not._ And the cant of her shoulders and hips is somehow bolder, different. “So…”

“Yeah.”

A nod and a flicker of a smile. “Where are you in such a hurry to ride to?”

“…Falkreath.” More or less.

“No. You can’t get there in a day.” Etain starts to protest, and Aela shakes her head, cuts her off. “You _can’t.”_ A sigh, and she holds out her hand, again, and Etain takes it, again – it is a hand, not a clawed paw, callused on the fingers and knuckles from archery and knife-work, warm and dry and very much a hand, and the other woman’s grip is as firm and quietly commanding as ever. “Come with me.”

That night she does not seek vengeance, and she does not die.

That night she tells Aela about Astrid, and about her work. About Helgen and looking up to see death in the sky. About the raw terror of running from the corpse of the dragon at the Whiterun tower, the instinctual _no_ that feels ridiculous, now, when the other Dragonborn has done so little and done so much wrong.

And she tells Aela about her scar and her blind left eye, the Imperial Legion raid on the last Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary high in the north of Cyrodiil, the Khajiiti Brother who’d been bought out and turned on her with blade and claw. The healer who’d found her had given her two options. Magic and peace, and darkness, and an empty crumpled lid; or pain that left her seeing shadows and staring white.

“Of course you chose pain,” Aela chuckles, running a fingertip over the puckered skin underneath, the ragged pits on her face from her Brother’s claws. The rasp of her drakeskin glove is rough against her face but underneath it is the hand, the warmth, human and Aela and very much _here._

“Of course,” she agrees. “I survived.”

The huntress dips her fingers in a pot of red paint and traces the lines on Etain’s cheek, the ragged tears on half of her, the dragon and the beast snarling through for all to see.

That is the night she tastes her blood.

*

Unlike the last one the College had sent her to, this tomb in the mountains near Solitude is mercifully empty of dragons.

It is just draugr, draugr and more draugr, rattling bones and blue-bright undead eyes, the ancient Nord patterns on their armor destroyed under centuries’ of dents and dust and rust. The one that Niamh is fighting wields a chipped old sword that is the very twin to the one over her mantle in Windhelm, all runes and jagged edges and _old._ He swings it high and she catches it on her flat and sweeps it away, punches the thing in the neck with a gauntleted fist that crackles with flame. The skull clatters to the stone floor, the body soon after.

It is the last of them.

The thought stays with her for only an instant because then there are more of them, maybe half a dozen streaming out of the battered stone doors toward her, and Marcurio shouts a warning. Niamh backs across the narrow tongue of a bridge over the steaming sulfur water until she is shoulder to shoulder with him, steel-and-bone armor flush against drape and robe. They have done this enough that they don’t need to glance at each other, and so, they don’t – they cast, her with one hand and him with both. The bridge crackles with lightning, burns with too-bright fire, roaring and hot and _glorious,_ and five of the six draugr do not make it across the bridge.

She drops into a low guard against the one that does. It comes out of the flames swinging wild, heavy curved axe in his skeletal hands. The reach is no match against her own sword and so she steps back, winces, braces herself –

Shouts –

_FORCE –_

And the draugr is flung away from her, off the bridge and into the yellow steaming rush of the sulfur river, gargling at her through a fleshless jaw as it’s swept down the tunnel and out of sight.

Niamh sheathes her sword, and Marcurio takes his fingers out of his ears and starts to applaud.

“Ass,” she teases, trying to hide the way it wants to end in a gag, trying to ignore the raw ache in her throat. “It’s not _that_ loud.”

“Yeah, it bloody is. Hurts my ears.” Worry flashes across his face – light, but still there. “Hurts your throat too, you said.”

“It’s getting better.”

That is a lie, but he lets it slide. She does not look at him. Thinks of her long talks with Arngeir that set her coughing blood as she shouted at the wind over and over again and he watched with concern in his eyes, of his longer talks with the rest of the Greybeards where she listened at the closed door and heard them speak a language that she was supposed to understand and yet, impossibly, couldn’t. _Finite,_ they said, and _mortal._ Too much, flesh, soul, _consume. Time._ Words that had made her shrink on tiptoe from the door and stare at her ceiling that night, sleepless. Made her find a shrine to Akatosh in the morning and get on her knees, prayers turning to insults as she cursed the Divine for giving her a Voice that her body couldn’t bear to use.

But those were the kind of thoughts that had made her run all the way to Winterhold to hide, and Niamh pushes them out of her mind.

She hop-skips across the bridge, over the pitted and blackened shards of smoking draugr bone, and Marcurio follows. There is a Word Wall here, somewhere. She can tell. Feel the dragon in her blood, under her skin, on her lips. If she is not careful she will begin speaking in a language that will break the ceiling above them like an egg.

They search.

And they search.

“You sure about this?” Marcurio asks, after a few minutes of poking for secret panels, peering at stones. “I mean, maybe there’s just a dragon waiting outside. Messing with you. Could be.”

“I’m sure,” Niamh murmurs. It’s another lie. She is not sure, not really, less sure than she’s ever been, and minutes go by with nothing more until she’s almost ready to – ah.

She looks up.

It is on the ceiling, clever thing. Clean long lines and precise little twists and dabs of claw marks, cuneiform, cut deep into the rock. A language that the academic in her loves and the rest of her loathes, because she can read it and because she _can’t,_ because it lives under her skin and writes her into songs. Writes her into legend. Out of time.

She reads.

It is hard, this time. It is like reading a language long-dead, as if she’s never used it herself or heard it shouted at her with flame and claw and scale, as if she’s hearing it through the rush of sand in an hourglass. But –

She can read, and the word is _hers,_ and Marcurio is there to catch her when she sways and looks away. And that is enough. That will have to be enough.

They do one last check of the tomb for survivors and then they settle by the sulfur water. He strips her armor off of her and piles it by the bank, and they sit in the stinking fumes, grateful for the warmth after hours of chilled stone and bone.

“I like this part,” she murmurs, turning a chip of runed tablet over and over (she will take it back to Winterhold to be translated, sometime after the end of the world is over). “The tombs. The temples. Discovering things. I even like the dragons, sometimes. They’re…”

“Terrifying?”

 _“Interesting,”_ she laughs, elbowing him in the ribs. Trying not to think of Helgen and the raw terror of _hearing_ the air around catch fire, of running with bound hands away from that horrible shape of destiny and wings. “But yeah. That too.” And she bites her lip, looks away. Looks up at the words that are so strange to read. “I just don’t like the – the politics of it. You know. Tullius is trying to turn me into a bloody symbol, and I’m not...”

“You’re Dragonborn, dear. Soul-too-awesome-for-your-body and all that. I think it comes with the package.”

Niamh closes her eyes. But she can still see those words on the ceiling, the claw-marks from long ago, black upon the grey. “Sometimes I don’t believe it.”

*

Aela watches her work.

The man is hiding nothing. That much is clear. Etain is standing over him in leathers black as night, as Sithis Himself, black cloth pulled tight over her face and hood shrouding low, staring at him with fury in one eye and blank judgment in the other. There are blades in her hands and blades laid out in a circle at her feet, some clean, some not. Blood dots the grass, some of it his, most of it not, and a werewolf crouches in the corner, the flesh from one of his comrades caught between her jaws, and she does not take her eyes off him.

Etain is surprised that it took this long to start him screaming.

“What did you find?” she asks, for the fifth or fiftieth time, “what did you find in the Brotherhood Sanctuary?” She knife slides across, slides down, just under his skin. Peels a strip away. It is a tiny blade and the strip is no wider than the width of her smallest finger, and his scream hangs electric on the air like the scent of a storm.

 _“Nothing,”_ he shrieks, voice high and pitching higher. “Divines, I swear, _nothing -!”_

He is hiding nothing and he _knows_ nothing. She doubts he was even there when the Legion raided the old Sanctuary (and found it empty, of course, evacuated, books destroyed, Night Mother spirited away, nothing for this unlucky man to find and even less for him to confess). He knows nothing. But this is its own perfect and personal kind of vengeance.

She asks again. _Again._ By the end she stops, drops the charade of exchange and simply _takes –_ skin, nails, the symmetry of his face. His eye, carved out with the curving tip of a knife that she has always wanted to use for this purpose, perfectly shaped to slip just inside the socket of bone.

It is his left eye, of course.

It is that kind of vengeance, too.

By the time Etain takes his life he has forgotten words, and her hands are slick with blood. She dries them on his cloak. Hears footsteps behind her, two instead of four, and turns to see Aela returned to herself again – the woman gives the wet patch of ground a careful berth as she approaches, and the light in her eyes is difficult to read. Approval, perhaps. Or disapproval. They are, in the end, so similar.

“I take it back,” she says, a light and half-forced laugh in her voice. The blood in the air is making her smile, sharp, and Etain can see that she’s not quite comfortable with that. Not in this skin, certainly not like this. “I’ve seen you savage. I never thought I’d see you cruel.”

“You’ve seen me savage?” Etain chuckles. She catches the woman’s hands in her own and drops a kiss to her knuckles. “When?”

It is a dare, and she takes it as such.

They run through the night as wolves, lean and dark and silver-lit under the moons, loping along the riverside in the first dustings of Frostfall snow. They chase each other over hills and through forests, howling, and when they descend (by chance, by happenstance, by want and _need)_ upon a camp of hapless humans it is neither cruelty nor vengeance, not of any sort. It is hunt and savagery and survival. Predation.

It simply _is._

“I hear them talking,” says Aela, as they lie in the ruined camp in human skins and watch dawn break over the trees. “They’re saying someone like you can’t be Dragonborn. Not someone slinking and quiet like you. Not proper Dragonborn.” She grins. It’s red. “It’s like when I thought you couldn’t be a Companion. I don’t think I believe them.”

Etain stretches out on her back. Part of her is searching the fading night sky for familiar constellations. Part of her, scarred and lean and wolfish, is searching the familiar constellations for the shadows of wings. Searching, always.

“I don’t think I believe them either,” she laughs.

It tastes like a challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

“As for myself, I was here and there and here again, like the rest of the mortals during the Dragon Break. How do you think I learned my mystery?” – Mannimarco, God of Worms, in _Where Were You When The Dragon Broke?_

 

Niamh hates the climb to High Hrothgar.

She is not even entirely sure why. Too many steps, of course, full ridiculous impossible seven thousand, endless and empty and cold. Cold that kneads into the folds of her cloak and frosts her armor, fingers its way between the metal joints to gnaw at her skin. Awful impossible cold. The shrines along the way are not waypoints, they mark nothing because they _mean_ nothing, provide comfort for a faith that is not and never will be hers. The snow flies thick. She is climbing toward something she can’t even see.

It is like this every time.

And it is harder, every time, not to turn around and leave.

But she shoves the snow-flecked wind-harried mop of hair out of her face and grits her teeth and climbs, because she must, because it is expected, because there are bloody _songs_ about it.

And when she reaches the top she does not even have time to knock the ice from her armor before the doors open and Arngeir is running up to her, eyes wind-wild. “Niamh –”

“In a minute,” she mutters, calling flame to her fingers and cursing as heat and life burn back into them. “I came here to see your library. General Tullius has questions.”

“Niamh, your politics are –“

“- Are important, Arngeir. The Empire is _important.”_

“There is another.”

Niamh sighs, shaking out her cloak to send a fine sheet of snow swirling off the mountainside. “Another _what?”_

“Dragonborn.”

She pauses. Freezes. Does not look up; that would mean acknowledgement. “You’re not serious.” She dares a glance out of the corner of her eye. “…You _are_ serious. Divines.” A raw-throated laugh. “Well, he’s an impost-”

“She’s no imposter,” says Arngeir. Voice low and dark, unburnt, rich and water-smooth. No strain, no dry-bone crackle. No dragonish edge. It is not the first time Niamh has thought that it is not _fair._ “She is real, Niamh. And yet the Elder Scrolls state that there is only one –”

“I know. I know.” She starts to laugh, the sound sharp and wild and spiraling into the sky. It makes a horrible sort of sense; of course it makes sense. “You’ve asked me to slay your people’s aspect of _Akatosh,_ old man, is it any wonder that time itself is – ”

She does not finish. There is no word in this language to finish.

And it is not, she thinks – absently – a question of truth or belief, now, because Arngeir does not lie and she can feel the other in her throat. Because she must. Because she believes.

It is a question of belief.

It is.

*

Etain is speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak when she gets the news.

They are speaking of temporal and trivial things. Movements and strategy, the map of Skyrim spread before them – cracked along the lines of race, religion, country, cut of cloak, _desire._ Red flags and blue flags and tiny soapstone figures that represent groups of men sent out to die. Abstract. Things unreal.

She is not entirely sure why she is here.

He’d asked her in the first five minutes if he could _get_ Tullius for her, as if the man were a thing, and she’d smiled and shaken her head. She will break in later and leave books at his bedside – _Sithis, The Brothers of Darkness, Sacred Witness._

There are ways in which these things must be done.

But that will be tonight, and this is now, and there is a courier barging in and slopping snow all over the floor. He bows to Ulfric. Bows low to Etain, a murmur of _Dragonborn_ on his lips, a fierce murmur of _the true._

The title makes her strand up straight but does not make her smile.

He gives her a letter with a shaking hand, and Etain unfolds it and begins to laugh.

“A challenge,” she chuckles, scorn and surprise warring in the crack of her voice. “A _challenge.”_ She holds it at arm’s length and reads – she has never learned to do so well, but she must and she believes that she must and so, she does. “The Dragonborn Niamh Selone issues a formal challenge to the pretender Etain and requests that she meet her on the field of battle and debate at the base of the Throat of the World –”

She is laughing too hard to continue, and the letter falls from her drakeskin-gloved hand and flutters into a snowmelt puddle.

“What will you do?” asks Ulfric.

“What I must,” laughs Etain. Her lips twist into a grin, feral. “I’ll answer. But I’ll do it _my_ way.”

*

Her house in Windhelm is quiet. In half-sleep, the sounds bleed together: the creak and shuff of snow re-settling on the roof and timbers on foundation, cool whistle of wind around chinked corners, the hollow resonance of empty air, so still, above her – their – bed. The rattle of her breath and the gentle purr of his, shading to snore, words and sounds like _warm_ and _Marcurio_ and _love_ and _husband_ curled around her.

This is what she wants.

No dragons, no wings, no blood in her mouth, no Archmage’s ring held up like a shield, burying herself in books and barrows so that she can avoid looking at the sky. None of that. Just – this. Home.

Niamh reaches behind her and threads her fingers through Marcurio’s. Traces the band around his finger, far too new to become tarnished or familiar. It is not the ring a Dragonborn would buy. It is a ring for her.

This is what she is. This is what she believes in.

Just this.

She dozes, sound of wind and sound of snow and sound of breath and bed and home all blending together, rhythmic creak of the house, creak after creak, steady and light as –

Footsteps –

Niamh sits up.

The house, dark, makes no comment. No sound. Marcurio stirs beside her, a soft whine of a noise, reaches for the slump of the blankets where she usually lies and blinks himself awake when she isn’t there. “Wha..?”

“Someone in the house,” she whispers.

He sits up beside her, squinting at the dark. “You sure…?”

She puts a hand over his mouth, summons a pale globe of light to the other and sends it shimmering down the length of the room, illuminating paintings on the walls and the rush of snow outside the frost-glass windows. Now that she is sitting up instead of curled under furs the room is cold. Wind and winter. Or perhaps that is just fear, hairs standing up all over her skin. She watches her little light hit the back wall and dissipate. It has shown her only shadows.

Niamh swallows hard. “Looks like it was nothing,” she manages.

Nerves, stress, a nightmare of climbing High Hrothgar to _death,_ nothing.

It must be.

But it is Marcurio who shakes his head, rises from the bed with only a mumbled curse at the cold. “I’ll check,” he murmurs. Shoots her a smirk, that crooked little arrogant twist of his mouth that she loves. He makes a whispered joke about dragons hiding in the woodpile that falls utterly flat and shrugs on his robe, light and fire held careful between his hands. She draws the furs around her and watches him walk the length of the room, the glow of his spell throwing his shadow ten-foot tall and monstrous against the walls.

At the far end he turns. Gives her another smirk. “I’ll check downstairs, love, but I don’t think –”

Niamh watches.

She _watches_ as the knife gleams silver out of the shadow behind him and slides against his throat, his _throat,_ eyes wide in surprise and a cry and a gurgle and _his throat –_

Blood splatters dark and thick and choking on the air, darker than shadow, darker than the shadow-armored hand that catches him and lowers him to the floor, quick, the gesture is efficient and means _nothing,_ the light in his hands is dying and she can’t see his face anymore, can’t see his smirk, his eyes, his, him, she can’t –

The light in his hands is –

Dead.

And the cry on the air is hers, it must be, she is up and out of the bed and there is fire in her hands, yes, fire growing in her hands, light to make up for the light that _isn’t_ and she can see it illuminate the _other_ , leathers dark, one eye darker, the other pale and reflecting nothing, slash of face-paint red streaks beneath that eye like claws. Knife in her hands red with blood. Dark with blood. Face sharp and shadowed, painted and elven and _snarling –_

_FORCE –_

She is flying. She is blown backward. Niamh hits the headboard hard and cracks her skull, or near enough, bits of possessions flying about her, paintings and books and knickknacks from the walls and shelves raining down upon the bed. Debris. Nothing. She can hear almost nothing through the ringing of her ears and the clink and clatter of falling _life,_ the crack and clatter of breaking glass. Breaking window. Dark armored sliver of an assassin vanishing out a broken window.

She runs to the window. She does not know how. Grabs a robe by instinct, some horrible ridiculous instinct of propriety, slips in the widening pool of blood on wooden floor but runs to the window, cuts her hand on broken glass spearing out of the sill.

The assassin crouches low on the rooftop below and she hunches, darkens, fur blossoming down the slope of her back. Shingles break and clatter from the roof as her claws dig in, send her pushing off, loping in one dark streak over the snow and over the wall and into the night. Too fast, far too fast. She leaves a trail of churned-up snow spotted with blood from a knife that isn’t there anymore but she is _gone_ and there is no horse that will catch her, she has such a head start, there is no mortal in Skyrim who can outrun her. Niamh knows. She _knows._

And because she does not believe, she steels her throat and speaks and follows.

*

Etain runs.

She curses high and low as she does, swears oaths against Sithis, the Night Mother, the Divines, the other Dragonborn and her meddling non-essential _mistake_ of a husband. They come out as snarls and growls. She digs her claws in hard against the leaf litter and dirt under the layer of snow and she runs as if that distant Whiterun dragon is behind her.

Because if she flees and escapes and shakes off the blame she might even get another shot.

Because it is not enough to kill that sharp-smirked mistake of a husband as a warning; it is far better than nothing, but not even close to enough. And if she escapes, if she is lucky, she can try again, slip through window wall and door and slide her knife across the proper throat and set things right.

She will get another shot to do it _right._

She curses the other Dragonborn for being a mage, for sleeping light, for not fixing the floorboards in her renovated crime scene of a house so that they didn’t creak under even the lightest of footsteps. She curses her for _being._ She has so many reasons to curse her.

And not the least is the scream that comes on the wind. It is not a shout – it is a _scream,_ raw and jagged and fire-laced, a word that Etain knows and knows well. She leaps to the side. Because there is nothing mortal that can outrun a werewolf but Dragonborn are not mortal, not always, not in this, and the word that comes spiraling out of the night toward her is fury.

And tempest.

And _wind._

It hits with a crack and a spray of snow, a too-fast flurry of footsteps coming to a stop just short of a tree. Niamh whirls, hair red, fire redder, her husband’s blood spattering her feet and up her legs. Etain crouches low and bares her teeth, reflecting that fire back in the yellow glow of her lupine eye.

“Why?!” Niamh screams. _“Why?!”_

Etain answers with a growl.

 _Because of what you are. Because of what you_ claim _to be._

And the other woman can understand some of it, she must, because she throws it back in Etain’s face. Shouts it back. A scream of ice and a burst of fire from her fingertips, sizzling water, and the werewolf jumps out of the way and lunges under her hands, under the fire, low. _Low._ Lunges and leaps under the fire toward Niamh’s face and the woman’s scream turns high and broken as she pushes against that, hands against muzzle and yellowed teeth as if Etain is a dog she can shove off.

She bears her down.

She burns. Her fur burns. Pain, yes, faint and flickering sharp, but mostly just the smell and the instinct. Fear sharp and cold as a knife. She _burns._ The mage’s hands fist sparking in her fur, dig in nails. Etain snarls and lashes out blindly, feels a long claw catch and tangle in Niamh’s hair, rip her scalp, feels the smallest sink _in._ Slash and catch and sink in her face, all lovely scent of blood –

Niamh wails, and bucks, and her hands are up and instinctively burning, and Etain is _burning_ and she lets her go and runs.

She runs, hits a snowbank, runs _through,_ skids out shivering and whimpering on the other side as a woman with red burns and dark scorch marks streaking her skin. She curls up shaking near the hard pack of snow that is far too cold to touch, swearing to Oblivion and back as she raises her trembling hand in front of her face and watches Niamh’s blood steam upon the winter air.

Blood under all five of her fingernails and blood up to the first knuckle on the smallest, and a bit of white, and long ripped-out red hairs twining around her knuckles.

She sniffs.

The wolf in her says it smells like blood and the dragon in her says it smells wrong, flat and over-familiar. She almost recoils. Brings it to her mouth to taste instead, just a bit. A tiny flick of the tongue.

It tastes like blood, and it tastes like wrong, and like _right._

Tastes like blood.

It tastes exactly like her own.

*

The healer finds her curled amidst the churned-up slush of snow, pressing clumps of it to the side of her face, the side of the world that is a red _nothing_. He has to take Niamh’s wrist and tug her hands away, inch by inch, as she shakes and swears to all the Divines in a voice too burnt for screaming.

“I can’t save your sight,” he tells her, after the first of the healing magic, the golden glow of spell after spell that had dulled the pain but done nothing to dull the _pain._ “But I can save your eye.”

“Can you save my husband?” Niamh asks him. Her voice is scratched and broken. This time the dragon is only a little to blame, and the burn in her throat is tears. “Can you save my _life?”_

The healer gives no answer.

“There will be pain,” he says.

He means her eye, what’s left of her eye, but Niamh laughs, watching the man recoil away from her with a half that is all she has left of the whole.

“No,” she laughs. “No pain. I’ve had enough.”

*

Etain bites her tongue as Aela soothes the snowberry ointment over the worst of her burns, that little metallic taste grounding her and keeping her from hissing in pain. They are healing well. They will scar, yes, dark and shining, but the scars will be flat and probably fade. But there are so _many_ splayed over her shoulders and back and she is already tired of this, tired of bandages that come loose when she tries to shoot and will not let her move, tired of quietly cursing at Aela as she re-smoothes those bandages carefully over her skin.

She reminds herself that she got off terribly lucky. Terribly, terribly lucky for botching a job and going toe-to-toe with an Oblivion-buggering _mage._

She got off far luckier than Niamh, too.

And Aela can read her mood or her mind, because she brushes the wisps of fire-shortened hair away from the nape of Etain’s neck and notes (voice light to match her touch), “you never told me how it went.”

“No?”

“You just told me she wasn’t dead.”

Etain smirks. It’s a crooked little thing, sharp and rather cruel. Aela can’t see it but it’s there in her voice. “I turned her into me.”

*

By the time she can stumble her way from room to room in her too-empty house and look in a mirror without cursing her reflection, the couriers have returned from the College of Winterhold. Niamh had sent them off with the word _werewolf_ and they have rewarded her with books, with scrolls, with pages of notes, must-smelling and most of them untouched for decades. Urag has probably forgotten that he owns most of them; and what he has not, he will not miss or begrudge his Archmage. She sits cross-legged on the rug and reads, turning her head to stare at the bloodstain on the floorboards when the strain on her eye is too much.

It is no time at all before she knows where to go.

And so she does, she rides to Whiterun like the wolf is chasing her. A dragon shadows her for part of the journey, panicking her horse, but Niamh digs in her heels and does not look up. She cannot be bothered. She does not care, and so it leaves her alone. She rides through the night and storms uninvited into the Companions’ hall the next morning without even a knock on the wide wooden doors.

There are men, of course, men with swords and axes, staring, men and women in roughshod armor rising from benches in shading varieties of surprise, but none of them matter because none of them are dark-armored and sharp-faced and glaring with only one eye.

“Tell me where she is,” Niamh snarls, voice low and raw, all dragon.

It’s a woman who speaks, bow in hand, smear of green-blue across her face. “No.”

“See? You should have said ‘who.’” This whole damn hall smells like dog, smells like blood, and Niamh hates it. It makes her eyes – eye – sting, makes her set her jaw and clench her fists. “The other Dragonborn is one of you. Don’t lie. The imposter Dragonborn. She’s here.”

“The _true_ Dragonborn,” comes a murmur from the table. There are other murmurs that follow that, one of “Skyrim” and one of “Stormcloaks,” of “bitch-born Imperials,” and the last one is the one that raises her hackles and makes her hands spit fire until they calm and quiet.

“Tell me where she is,” she repeats.

“Why?”

“So I can _kill her.”_

The woman _moves,_ fast, puts an arrow on the string and draws it back, impossibly fast – the other Companions are all making noise and moving and this woman is already statue-still with the arrow flush against her painted cheek, arm not shaking at all. She does not seem to fear the way Niamh has shifted her weight and her stance, hands held out to cast, fingertips black from perpetual soot and sparking with flame and pale lightning. They stare each other down, eye to black-patched eye. _“Tell_ me where she _is.”_

“We protect our own,” says the woman, flat. “And she’s not –”

“ – Here.”

*

Niamh is, she thinks, a bit of a fool. She’s come in here shouting, fire blazing in her hands, and so has paid no attention to the sounds that are so loud in Etain’s well-tuned ears – the creak of leather (donned for the first time since the burns), shuffle of padded footstep, quiet brush of hands against armor to check that all her knives are buckled safely into place. She steps out when she’s good and ready, and when Aela’s elbow is just barely starting to shake with the strain of not just _shooting._

Niamh’s head whips up and she takes a step back, flames flaring higher, and studies her with her good right eye.

 _“Why?”_ she asks, like she had before. It’s a snarl, sharp and ragged and dragonish.

“Because I could.” Etain smiles when she steps fully into the firelight, thin and humorless and slightly cruel. “You challenged, and I answered. I was aiming for you.” She moves to Aela’s side, lays a hand on her not-shaking arm. “It’s alright, love.”

“Bullshit,” the huntress murmurs, but she relaxes her draw enough that some of the tension drops out of her shoulders and out of the room.

Niamh is just staring at her. Lips thin and bloodless. The patch over her eye is as dark as the Void itself, delicately embroidered with a rune that means _Dragonborn_. From what little she knows of the woman, that rankles. “You killed my husband, assassin,” she spits, and the job on her lips is an insult.

“I know. I was aiming for you. You killed _Astrid.”_

“Who?”

“Not important.” And Etain reaches into her pocket, smile growing as she thumbs the little token there, the signature gold badge on a well-known cloak. _Thi_ s had been the only information she’d tortured out of the Legion soldier before she took his life. “Your Legion tried to kill my Family,” she tells her, drawing that badge out and tossing it to her. The other Dragonborn holds it up, squinting at the little crest, Tullius’s little familiar crest. “I thought I’d return the favor.”

Niamh’s lips move. She makes a little noise, almost soundless, a whimper of _Tullius._ Etain smiles. She considers telling the story of how the man cursed her, choked on insults laced with blood as she left him gasping and bleeding out on the floor, but that would be unsubtle and far too cruel. So she just stands there and watches as the Imperial’s fist curls around the little badge, tucks it close to her heart, and she brings up her other hand with _fire._

It takes all the Companions to keep her off her.

*

They’ve got her in an unused room at the bottom of Jorrvaskr, hands tied to the chair behind her back, still gagging from whatever wretched magicka-draining herb that the woman – _Aela_ – had forced down her throat. The bruises where her armor doesn’t cover ache, and her breastplate has twisted oddly and is biting into her side. But none of that matters.

None of that matters because Etain is staring at her, standing in the doorway, crouching with a whisper and creak of leather to look her in the eye.

“You,” she pronounces, “are an idiot.”

There is no judgment in the statement, if such a thing is possible.

Niamh doesn’t answer. Her last memory of Etain is of a werewolf running away from her with flames searing down its back, and she’s watching the other woman move – trying to look for the pain, the wincing tightness of fresh scars. But the Bosmer is good at masking her face and her body, and if all the layers of cloth and leather against her skin are causing any discomfort then she’s careful to hide it. She is, like any animal, not showing weakness.

And it’s the word _animal_ that makes Niamh lift her chin and answer.

“’Least I’m not a murderer.”

“Please.” The woman gives a little laugh. “You’re going to have to do better than that.” She cocks her head; it’s a birdlike motion. “What did you think you were going to do, hmm? Kill me while all the Companions watch? You are an _idiot._ Why are you here?”

“How do you _exist?”_

She means it rhetorically, carrying words like _sin_ and _monster_ and _someone like you,_ but Etain’s face goes still. Blank. She rocks back on her heels. Reaches out, childlike – Niamh recoils – and touches the patch over the Imperial’s eye, a light little tap against the rune that means _Dragonborn_. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Black patch to blind white eye, pale skin and hair to dark, it is like looking in a mirror, and Niamh can find no answer.

She still can’t find one when, a moment later, Etain sighs and reaches out to unbind her hands.

*

It will not die.

But Niamh will not, either, and Etain feels scorn give way to vague admiration and then crumble horribly into doubt as she crouches low against the ground and watches the woman battle the dragon. The fight has gone on for long, for _far_ shorter than Etain would have liked, and Niamh’s sword and the rocks beneath her are black with smoking blood. She moves faster than she has any right to in bone-pale and steel-bright plate, braided hair behind her like a streak of fire itself, and the air around the beast crackles with shattered arcane wards and second-long shields. They last just for the breath it takes Niamh to slip between tooth and claw and strike, no longer.

It is, Etain thinks, very expertly done.

Better than her method of running and ducking and hiding, praying to Sithis, slipping out behind trees to send arrows into eyes or down gaping jaws.

Better than anything she could ever do. Stupider, perhaps. _Nobler,_ at least. Heroic.

The thought has barely passed her mind before the dragon’s jaws come down, snap, squeal against bone and steel and catch on the overlap of scales at Niamh’s elbow. And she screams.

She – Etain – is up and moving, _shouting,_ bow in hands, blood on her tongue, blood from her scream – shout – hanging sickly on the air. The dragon stills, gauges this new threat, and that is all they need. The Dragonborn’s sword is through the roof of its mouth and the Dragonborn’s arrow is point-blank in its throat and that is all they _need_. Etain runs up and helps Niamh wrench herself away as it seizes and dies, crashes to the ground with a shudder that can likely shatter time.

And that is all.

They stand there, arm in arm, breathing hard, staring the dragon eye to eye to eye as nothing happens.

Etain is the one to break the _nothing,_ doubling over as she begins to cough. Out of the corner of her eye she watches Niamh turn away and gingerly bend her elbow. The plate is crushed and she’s lost some motion, and Etain can see just a trickle of blood oozing between the gaps in the steel. She touches her own elbow, shudders. Shudders more at the unmistakable pain of a fresh bruise.

“Thanks,” says Niamh, voice a rough uncertain crackle, because no one is saying anything. Least of all the dragon. “That was…heroic of you.”

Etain cannot reply, coughing, Voice blade-sharp in her throat. The tip of the dragon’s wing is at her feet and she watches it fleck with blood. Watches it _lie there,_ bloody and dead, inert, all flesh and beast and _soul._

And when she is done and the wingtip is more red than flesh, she lets Niamh take her by her not-good elbow and lead her up to where they had actually arranged to meet.

*

The Shrine of Akatosh in Twilight Valley has long since been abandoned. It is not so hard to guess why.

Niamh lights a candle with shaking soot-stained fingers, offers one to Etain. The assassin shakes her head. “Just one,” she says, and her voice is a pained rasp, barely audible over the rumble of the nearby waterfall, “just one for both of us.”

She decides not to think about that too much.

There are many things she’s decided not to think about.

But there are questions that need answering, there are dead that must be tallied and accounted for, there is the small matter of the Elder Scroll that gives one name when there should be two. Or two names when there should be one.

It is difficult to tell.

“Helgen,” she asks. Because the name is a question in and of itself. She places the candle at the altar, among the broken hourglasses and the water-stained books that speak of breaking and mantling, apotheosis and becoming. Turns to Etain.

“I was there,” says the other Dragonborn, candlelight flickering over the paint and claw-marks of her scars.

“So was I.”

They tell their stories, then, and the stories are the same.

There are differences, of course – Imperials or Stormcloaks, the specific shouts and screams of the men who died, whether Etain had cursed or Niamh had sobbed or neither or both of them had prayed to this god or that. But the light is the same, the stories of bindings on their hands, of beheadings, the fresh-blood stick of the headsman’s block against neck, of fire beating at their back. And when Etain takes her gauntleted hand in her gloved one to point at the statue of the dragon that crouches high over the altar, it is the same. Recognizable. Always the same.

Akatosh.

Alduin.

There are claw-marks under the statue, framed by shrouding wings, in a script that Niamh knows and does not know at all. They twist in her vision. Sometimes the name is this and sometimes it is that, and sometimes it is _time,_ but it is always the same name and it is two where there should be one. Or one where there should be two. It is so, so difficult to tell.

They talk for a long time, then, of other things that are the same. Things unreal. Jills and dragons brought back from the grave, the watchmen of time dying over and over again to Archmage blade or Brotherhood arrow. Of Skyrim split in half and tearing itself apart (Niamh thinks of Tullius, curls fingers around the cloak-badge in her pocket until it digs into her skin, bites her tongue and tries _not_ to think of the words _setting the scales aright)_. They talk, nervously, of the way that when the Greybeards had shouted her name from High Hrothgar she’d heard it echo, lance an eggshell-crack of thunder across the sky. Of blood in their throats and a Voice that is too large for their flesh. Of flesh that is too much for their Voice.

Of the one unbroken hourglass on the altar before them.

The sand is no longer running.

“What do we do?” she asks, at last. Her voice is a raw whisper; whether from talking, or grief, or the dragon tongue in her throat, she can no longer tell.

Etain smiles, thin. Predatory and cruel. Her scars are deep and black in the moonlight; they have been speaking for hours, and they are still black in the same moonlight.

“What we must,” she says. It’s a bit of a laugh and a bit strained. “We set things right. Both of us.”

“But the Elder Scroll –”

 _“Fuck_ the Elder Scroll,” snarls Etain, and if there’s a catch in her voice, odd and twisted, it’s only the dragon. “There’s two of us. Two dragons. Akatosh and Alduin. Time –” She begins to laugh in earnest, the sound wild. _“Time –”_

Niamh gives a growl of disgust. It’s a predatory sound, low and wolfish, and she gets to her feet and stalks off. Stands before the altar to read the words in the tongue she cannot read. The woman is right, perhaps, but there is Tullius’s badge biting sharp into her fingers and there is also, Divines, there is also Marcurio, bleeding out on her bedroom floor. Love and home and husband and everything she’d wanted to be, even the magic she’d tried to bury herself in at Winterhold, fading with the magelight in his hands.

They still sang songs about her in taverns, but those songs were about heroism tempered with grief, and they were no longer and had never been about _her._

“I can’t work with you,” she tells Etain, not turning.

But what she says is _I cannot be you._

What she says is _I do not believe._

And Etain is still laughing. _”TIME –”_

*

It burns. Etain burns. The word sears her throat on its way out. It is the word on the crown of the shrine between Akatosh’s claws, under Alduin’s wings. It is many where there should be one.

She thinks of Ulfric shouting the High King apart with his Voice and starting this all. Or not starting this all; but it is a point, an event, a grain in the hourglass. It is a point, and it is wildly appropriate, and she cannot stop laughing.

The word is _TIME._

And it is also something like _FINITE,_ something like _END._ It is difficult to tell.

Perhaps it is _BEGIN._

*

It is a word she does not understand.

The hourglass on the altar shatters. The sky breaks, eggshell thin, lightning carving cracks of day into night. Niamh hears a roaring down the valley as the dragon’s flesh melts away, scale and blood and bone spiraling off into soul, the world righting itself.

She falls to her knees before the carved shrine of Akatosh and Alduin, and the snap of its spine is her own.

*

Etain loves the climb to High Hrothgar.

She has always loved it; but then, she has never climbed it before, and some part of her that died in the Twilight Valley at the feet of the God of Time had always hated it as well.

She loves it because it is a good time to meditate, to think, to lose herself in the shush and silence of drifting snow. Even though there is no place to hide; even though the cold makes the scars on her back, that last reminder, tighten and ache. She takes each step as its own. Does not hurry. There is no room for hurrying in the life of a Brotherhood assassin, after all, no room for hurrying in a world where time has fallen out of joint.

She pauses at the first shrine to trace gloved fingers over the words etched in frost-laced stone. They tell of myths, of course, of gods among men and dragons who were gods, two in one. Things that are. And now that she can properly read the claw-scratched words, they tell of things that are _not:_ of points that splintered off, that broke the spine of Time, points where sometimes the Scrolls say _one_ and sometimes they say _two._

At the first shrine she reads of the Numidium, of its varied fates, of the ones that are true and the ones that are false and the ones that should not have been.

At the second she reads of Red Mountain and the Nerevarine who was and wasn’t and _believed._

At the thirds she reads of dragons burning into flesh.

She reads of a thief with no name who stole an Elder Scroll. The monks who read them went blind, lost sight in two of their two eyes; she touches her own, remembers Niamh, and laughs. It is the only time she has thought of the other woman since her death. And she thanks her, now, upon the Throat of the World, for sparing her half her sight.

She reads of the Emperor’s lost heirs, so many, that should have been found and weren’t, of their heirs that died before they were born. She reads of the moon above the city of Vivec falling in an impossibility of belief, death where there should have been none, a volcano that destroyed beyond all rhyme and reason. She reads of the Empire crumbing where it should not, of the Thalmor conquering where they should not, of Jills and resurrected heroes, of Listeners lost and Nightingales killed and gods stripped of divinity, of other gods splitting off to take their place.

She reads. And she climbs.

And when she reaches the last of the seven thousand steps she stands before the doors and speaks. There is no pain in her voice, no dragon fighting to get out or flesh breaking under the strain of her soul. No rasp or fire that leaves her coughing blood upon the stone. No other. Just her Voice, and _FORCE,_ and the doors blow open at a word.

Arngeir stands before her. She recognizes him, and there is no surprise upon his face. “Why are you here?” he asks.

Not _who are you?_ Because that is not a question that needs to be asked. Because she is Dragonborn.

She has mantled. And she _believes._

“I have come to break the dragon,” says Etain. “And then I have come to make it whole.”


End file.
